


From the Library of Mr. Anthony J. Crowley

by AmbassadorInara



Series: Loops and Holes [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Bondage, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Manipulation, Partial Mind Control, Reluctant Dom, Submissive Aziraphale (Good Omens), Submissive Character, collaring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-02 12:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20276185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmbassadorInara/pseuds/AmbassadorInara
Summary: There was no sense in being shy about it now. Aziraphale summoned as much love and courage as he could manage, and, without breaking eye contact, sank to his knees.The fluttering in his stomach turned to a thrill as his knees made contact with the sleek hardwood floor. Deep behind the urgent, frazzled fear was a solid core of trust, of longing, of a love so vast the whole of history could not contain it.  It felt like this - this act of submission, this simple position that somehow placed his everything at Crowley’s feet - was the answer to a question he had never dared to ask.





	From the Library of Mr. Anthony J. Crowley

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Loopholes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19293892) by [JulieBehrens (JulieCox)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulieCox/pseuds/JulieBehrens). 

> Thank you to JulieCox for inspiring me with Chapter 1 of Loopholes. Go read it it's so good!  
Like Loopholes, this is set as an alternate ending, where Crowley and Aziraphale have not pulled the body-switching trick.
> 
> There is no smut here, sorry. Just a good old-fashioned metaphysical collaring and lots of subby feels.
> 
> cn: consensual slavery, manipulation/reluctance, brief mention of rape

* * *

“I _hate_ you.” Crowley snarled, eyes glowing with acidic flame. Aziraphale knew that he meant it, could feel the waves of infernal hatred radiating off of him. It nearly knocked the angel over with sheer fury, but Aziraphale managed to remain calm. He had anticipated Crowley would react poorly, although the hatred was unexpected and dizzyingly painful.

“You goatfucking son of a syphilitic whore. How _could_ you - “ Crowley stalked across the room, continuing to spew curses. The room wasn’t exactly big enough for _stalking_, as it was only a few paces wide, but he managed. 

“Please don’t speak of Her that way.” Aziraphale quietly interrupted his tirade. “You know it upsets me.”

“It upsets _you? It upsets YOU?_” Crowley was bellowing now. “Good. Be upset. Be _perturbed _even. It’s the least you could do for putting me in this position, you manipulative cunt.”

Aziraphale had nothing to say in response. The hatred emanating from the demon had started boiling the air, searing his skin. Crowley continued his stalking, cursing creatively in at least a dozen languages and not actually paying that much attention to him. Which was alright - that meant the tears steaming off of his face might go unnoticed.

This wouldn’t have been so devastating if Crowley weren’t completely _right_. Aziraphale had been a manipulative cu-…well, he had been manipulative. He had done a series of fairly innocuous things that had added up to one truly terrible one, and not for entirely unselfish reasons. This was the consequence.

Crowley’s insults lanced through him, leaving him ragged and broken. For a brief moment, Aziraphale feared that Crowley might toss him out. Evict him from this damp warded corner of Hell and leave him to be destroyed or enslaved by the first hellions to find him. He could fight, sure, but eventually there would be too many. He knew from the moment he arrived Downstairs that he was not leaving here unscathed. 

And perhaps, in that brief moment, Crowley did consider it. He was certainly enraged enough. But Aziraphale had Faith. Faith in Crowley, in his unwavering commitment to doing the wrong thing for the right reasons, in their six thousand years of friendship. And, a little bit, in Crowley’s demonic selfishness. 

Eventually, agonizingly, Crowley’s rage softened to hurt. The barbs became less profane and more personal, cutting with a precision born of intimacy. By the time the torrent subsided, Aziraphale was relying heavily on the back wall to remain upright, mud (God he hoped it was mud) smearing on his jacket.

Crowley finally looked at him, his amber eyes searching for answers. This was it. The moment he had been avoiding since he first came up with this truly insane plan a few weeks after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. He shakily returned his weight to his feet and straightened his rumpled clothes. 

“I’m truly sorry, my dear,” he began. Crowley rolled his eyes spitefully. “But this is the best option. I’ve looked for alternatives. There are none.”

“You could have _asked_ me. You didn’t have to manipulate me.”

“I didn’t have time. Gabriel was on my heels. Where else was I to go?” Aziraphale looked up at him pleadingly. This was only true in the most technical sense, since the reason there hadn’t been time to discuss it properly was because he had been avoiding mentioning the idea ever since he first conceived of it a few weeks ago. Gabriel’s sudden appearance had forced his hand. 

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. He appeared to at this moment still hate Gabriel more than he hated Aziraphale, which was a good sign. “And really, what are our options, long term?” Aziraphale continued. "If they put their minds to it, either your side or mine could find us no matter where we go.” 

Crowley cast his eyes around the tiny room despairingly. He had obviously already followed this line of reasoning to its natural conclusion, as well, even though he likely was very drunk by the time he got there. There was no way for him to go to Heaven, of course, and with Gabriel now hunting Aziraphale on Earth, the only remaining option was Hell. But it wasn’t exactly a _good_ option.

There were already a few angels in Hell, so it was in fact possible. These unlucky few had been overpowered and Bound by the demonic lords who now kept them as slaves, leeching their divinity to fuel their own infernal powers. When Aziraphale had arrived in Hell not an hour ago, he had heavily implied that Crowley had done the same to him, earning him a bit of awed deference until Crowley could arrive and spirit him away. 

Which left Crowley in the unenviable position of either actually enslaving Aziraphale, or condemning him to Hell. 

“No.” Crowley said quietly. Aziraphale looked at him, the question in his eyes. “No. I won’t play your twisted game. I refuse. There’s always another way.” 

“I hope you’re right.”

* * *

Crowley left shortly afterward, leaving Aziraphale alone in the dank room. It appeared to be the hellish equivalent of a broom closet, but the drywall and tile floors were covered with years of deposits from whatever was dripping in through the ceiling. Also there were no brooms. The room was completely empty except for the constant drip of stalactites forming above his head. He considered miracling himself an armchair, but any miracle he performed would let Heaven know he was still alive. The longer they thought he was dead, the better. Instead, he sat on the cold, muddy floor, getting up to stretch whenever one of his feet fell asleep. 

How many hours, weeks, years even, had he spent waiting for Crowley? Waiting for him to arrive fashionably late for lunch, to visit the bookshop, to wake from a decades-long nap? Waiting for him to come to the rescue. To take off his sunglasses. For a single touch. Centuries of hesitating, hoping and hinting for just a bit more, as much as they dared. And now, with the waiting so close to an end, it felt like he was holding his breath, lungs screaming in agony for Crowley to just _do it already. _

But Crowley needed time. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there - a week, maybe? it was hard to tell without any light, and he didn’t dare even crack the door to peek outside. The wards Crowley had placed on the room were fragile enough as it was. But he knew Crowley would come back for him. Eventually.

On what felt like approximately the ninth day, Crowley reappeared with a quiet _pop-hiss_. He looked a wreck. "You were right.” he muttered, defeated. “That obnoxious bastard has set up surveillance. The moment you try to leave here, he’ll know. And he’ll kill you.” Aziraphale nodded. That was expected.

“And I can’t just _pretend_ to Bind you. The lesser demons might be fooled with a glamour, but the Lords are already getting suspicious. They want to know why I haven’t already done something flashy with my newfound power.” Crowley looked like he might retch. 

Aziraphale managed a weak smile. “Goodness, I can’t imagine you being _flashy._” Crowley was not amused.

“You really tied this all up in with a neat little bow, didn’t you?” He was trying to be angry, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. He just looked tired. He offered Aziraphale a hand up off the filthy tile. They stood hand-in-hand for a long moment in that literal hellhole, binary stars caught in each others’ orbit, deciding whether to crash together or fling apart.

“I’ll hurt you.” he said quietly. He couldn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

“I know.” 

“No, you don’t know.” Crowley spat. “You’ve thought everything through but this one bit - Bound angels are forced to obey. And at some point, maybe not today, or next year, or the one after that, but at some point, angel…_I will force you._” At this his voice turned to a growl, low and seductive and menacing.

Aziriphale smiled with relief. He’d long suspected, of course, that Crowley’s fondness for him included all sorts of very human desires, as well. The explicit affirmation was nice, even if it was wrapped up in a violent demonic threat. Also nice was the way his smile was currently throwing Crowley off-balance. He allowed himself to enjoy having the upper hand for a moment, knowing that it very well could be the last time.

“I know.” He repeated. He fussed with his waistcoat a bit. “Well, I wouldn’t have thought to presume, but certainly the possibility had occurred to me.” Crowley just stared at him. “What I mean to say is, well, this plan solves two of our problems at once, doesn't it? Two birds, one stone?” Crowley looked as if he was going to reply, but Aziraphale rushed onward, worried that if he didn’t get the words out now he might never manage it. “A Bound angel can’t fall. They don’t have free will. So the only way…” 

“So you want to trade away your free will for a fuck?” Crowley retorted contemptuously.

“My options right now are Bound angel or fallen one, my dear.” 

And with that, the remainder of Crowley’s defenses came crumbling down. He put his head in his hands for a few moments, his hellsoaked hair flopping over his fingers. “Have it your way, angel.” He finally said. “But we’re not doing it here.”

* * *

With a flash of dark, both angel and demon were deposited into a flat more or less exactly like the one Crowley kept in London. Although instead of a skyline, outside the windows were endless caverns and slime-covered walls. Inside, it was stark and minimalist, and felt like the exact opposite of _home._

Aziraphale watched as Crowley strode into the kitchen, searching for something alcoholic. He hated putting Crowley through this, and wondered if it was possible to be ashamed of your actions without regretting them. He had done what was necessary to keep Crowley safe. And if his wings were the price, well, he would be all right. The humans managed just fine without them.

Crowley returned with two glasses and a bottle that seemed to have been very recently opened and drained of half its contents. He slammed them down on the sleek dining table, and as he did so, a complicated set of chains and cuffs appeared, as well. He poured another glass and downed it in one smooth motion, staring at the contraption between them. It was made of three thick cuffs connected by short chains, and appeared to be covered in crude oil. Thick tendrils of the viscous liquid hung off of each cuff, and the whole thing pulsed menacingly. Aziraphale was filled with a very clear sense that he did not want to touch that thing. Ever. 

“’s got my name on it.” Crowley observed, gesturing toward the obscene device with a now-refilled glass. 

Indeed it did. Crowley’s true name was spelled out in demonic sigils around the base of each cuff. Aziraphale shuddered. After all of his careful research and planning and, yes, manipulating, it finally felt real. As he felt the terror of what he was about to do clutch at his throat, he also felt something closer, and much more human, flutter in his abdomen. He reached out and placed his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, turning him around and looking deep into his glittering eyes. There was no sense in being shy about it now. Aziraphale summoned as much love and courage as he could manage, and, without breaking eye contact, sank to his knees. 

The fluttering in his stomach turned to a thrill as his knees made contact with the sleek hardwood floor. Deep behind the urgent, frazzled fear was a solid core of trust, of longing, of a love so vast the whole of history could not contain it. It felt like this - this act of submission, this simple position that somehow placed his everything at Crowley’s feet - was the answer to a question he had never dared to ask.

Crowley reacted by skittering backward as if Aziraphale were a particularly gruesome spider. Aziraphale bowed his head and waited. He thought he might make this easier on Crowley by projecting strength and resolution, even though he felt more like his nerves were unzipping him from the inside. He took the opportunity while on his knees to pray, and that did help calm him a bit, although he wasn’t sure if She listened to prayers with postmarks from Hell.

Eventually he heard a glass hit the table and the ghastly device’s chains rattle. Crowley slowly approached him from behind. Before he had to ask, Aziraphale manifested his wings, stretching them to their fullest span. He ruffled the pristine feathers a bit, enjoying the feeling of cool air on the undersides. They stretched across the length of the room, tips gently brushing against the walls. He flapped them gracefully a few times, then folded them behind his back. He held them out to Crowley as an offering, waiting for what seemed like an eternity.

He shivered as he felt Crowley’s hands slip between the feathers, touching with a gentleness that bordered on reverence. “Do you - do you want to fly one last time?” Crowley whispered. Aziraphale shook his head. It was too dangerous.

With a whimper that sounded too much like a plea for forgiveness, Crowley slipped two of the cuffs over Aziraphale’s wing joints. They slid on easily, then dramatically constricted, clamping his wings closed and oozing out more of the slick oil tendrils. The liquid ran in thick rivulets through the angel’s feathers and then deeper, under the skin and muscle, into the very essence of Aziraphale’s soul. 

Aziriphale felt pain like nothing he had ever felt. All at once, every kind of pain, from the horrors of war to the heartbreak of young love, panic and fear and grief all colliding together in an unending barrage. As his psyche started to crack under the pressure, the demonic oil slipped in, expanding and pushing open the cracks until he was riddled with canyons, each exposing raw, unseen depths.

The pain subsided as quickly as it came, and Aziraphale was left broken, trying to gather up the pieces of his mind and form them into something approximating a whole. But as soon as he managed to hold on to a simple thought, the tendrils embedded in his wings siphoned it away, leaving him with wisps and shadows. He eventually switched his focus to his body, trying to move his fingers, his toes, his wings. None responded. He was simply a mindless passenger, empty and unmoored.

And then: a thought, whole and terrifying and extremely Other, filled up Aziriphale’s consciousness, overshadowing the scattered remnants of his own mind. _Shut it off you bloody angel! Shut it off!_ He didn’t know what that meant, but he obeyed anyway. 

It felt so good, _obedience_. It was so simple and easy and impossible to get wrong. He was made for this, to serve others. The simple act of “shutting it off” filled him with such joy and contentment it was hard for him to think of anything but awaiting the next command to obey. Which, for a long time, is exactly what he did. 

As he waited, he started to notice. He noticed that he was still kneeling on the floor, although somewhat slumped over. He noticed the cold floor pressing against his shins. He noticed how his hair tickled the side of his face. And, eventually, he noticed that he was able to hold all these noticings in his mind without them being siphoned off. As these tiny thoughts started to emerge in his shattered mind, he realized that what he had shut off was the cuffs siphoning his essence away. Without their interference, he was able to slowly piece himself back together.

He started by lifting himself back into a kneeling position. It was starting to make his knees ache, but it just felt so _right_ and _comfortable_ that he stayed there. He opened his eyes and stretched, grimacing as his wings strained against the new cuffs. They could move, but couldn’t open. Wouldn’t open. Ever again.

The sudden influx of grief threatened to overtake him, so he shoved that thought down as deep as it would go and tried to refocus. Crowley staggered back into the room, bottle in hand. He had abandoned the glass. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, as he handed the bottle over. He looked windswept, like he had gotten the brunt of what the cuffs had stolen from Aziraphale.

“Fine.” Aziraphale’s reply and acceptance of the drink were polite as ever. He reached back to the table for his glass. 

“Don’t lie to me.” Crowley growled at him, and the force of it knocked the glass from his hand. It shattered on the floor, sending glittering shards across the dark wood. Aziraphale barely even noticed. His eyes met Crowley’s, and before he even had time to think, he had blurted out “sorrowful.” 

The look of guilt that washed across Crowley’s face was almost as painful as the Binding had been, and Aziraphale’s hands clapped to his mouth in shock. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean- I don’t know why- “ 

“Because I told you to.” Crowley interrupted. He sunk into the dining chair nearest where Aziraphale was still kneeling on the floor, and rubbed his eyes angrily. 

Yes, that was it exactly. Aziraphale looked up at him in wonder. His power must run deep, if he could unintentionally issue commands that forcefully. From what Aziraphale had read, it took other demons years to learn how to channel their power. He had expected a clash of wills, a battle of celestial forces, not something so…effortless. It was terrifying.

With a scowl and a flick of his wrist, the glass shards cleared from the floor and rematerialized as a full glass of whiskey in Crowley’s hand. He added a single ice cube and handed it to Aziraphale. 

“Thank you, master.” Aziriphale replied, the word tumbling out of his mouth like he’d said it a million times before. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. He could feel the blush rising in his cheeks, but did not look away. 

“Oi! Stop that nonsense. I’m nobody’s master.” Crowley half-heartedly kicked at him, but then considered his next words carefully. “At least when we’re alone.” 

Aziraphale nodded, reveling in the warmth and power of the command, letting it sink in through his skin and settle in the back of his mind. He drained his glass and lifted the collar that rested on his shoulders. “Shall we continue?” He managed to keep the eagerness from his voice, but whether he was eager to get it over with or eager for more, he couldn’t say. Crowley just grimaced in reply. 

He reached behind Aziraphale’s neck to pull the collar forward, gently sweeping his hair out of the way. Every touch of his slim fingers to the back of Aziraphale’s neck sparked shivers of pleasure that shot down his spine and up into his scalp. Crowley pulled his hands forward, tracing Aziraphale’s jawline and dragging a finger down his throat, tender and possessive touches that caused his breath to catch and eyes to flutter wide. 

With a tug, Crowley snapped shut the collar and twisted the lock. It constricted and oozed, same as the cuffs, but this time Aziraphale felt the sensations throughout his entire body. He felt his physical form compressed on all sides, like he was being squeezed down into nothing. He couldn’t move and couldn’t breathe, but, surprisingly, did not panic. Instead, he leaned into the feeling, this sense of nothingness. It was strangely comforting. He felt safe inside his constraints, like a chick not quite ready to hatch. A sense of peaceful contentment surrounded him. He was constrained, yes, but now free to live peacefully as he wanted. He was owned, yes, but free to serve without repercussion. He was Bound, yes - but he had been bound to Crowley for centuries already.

The feelings passed more slowly this time, Crowley’s name lingering in the marrow of his bones. He reached up to touch the collar, and with that touch came flashes of sensation and memory - the first inhale of hot tea steam, Crowley's smile when he thinks no one’s looking, the careful smoothing of a newly-applied bookplate - which filled him with delight. He let out a contented sigh. It was the first time since coming up with this scheme that he was fully sure of his decision. He opened his eyes to find Crowley peering at him over the top of a whiskey glass, a puzzled expression on his face. 

“Are you all right, my dear?” Aziraphale asked gently. Although he was sure he had spoken the endearment, the words had still felt like “master” in his mouth.

“No.” Crowley replied simply. “Come on, get up off the floor and help me get wasssted.”

Aziraphale felt the command fill him with a warm glow, something akin to joy. This was something he already wanted to do, he didn’t need any orders. But the current of his demon's words pulled him along into deeper devotion like a tiny leaf in river eddies. It was no longer a simple invitation, it was an opportunity to obey, to serve, to love him purely and unabashedly.

He sat across from Crowley and poured himself a double - he had some catching up to do. He lifted his glass. “To our new Arrangement.” Crowley just scowled and continued to pour liquor down his throat.

Aziraphale took a few sips and watched his owner carefully. When he wasn’t glowering at his glass, Crowley's eyes were flicking anxiously to the collar around Aziraphale’s neck. Certainly Heaven had noticed by now that he had been Bound, so a few minor miracles wouldn’t change anything. He needed to get out of these muddy clothes, anyway. With a blink, he switched to a clean, freshly pressed suit and colorful bow tie, with no wings, cuffs, or collar in sight. 

Crowley gaped for a moment. “I thought you couldn’t - “

“Oh, no, I haven’t changed anything, not really. I’ve just made it appear, well, a little less conspicuous.” Crowley raised his eyebrows, but didn’t inquire any further, and seemed to relax a bit now that the proof of him being a newly-minted slave owner was hidden from view. 

* * *

Several hours and bottles later, they had collapsed onto the couch, Crowley propping his feet up in Aziraphale’s lap. He had only given one more order: if he didn’t mean for it to be an order, it didn’t count - which they both agreed was very sensible. But Aziraphale was enjoying the fact that his peculiar condition and Crowley’s drunken state allowed him to be as attentive as he liked, and was currently lovingly massaging Crowley’s left foot.

Crowley seemed to be enjoying it too, although he was only a few centimeters away from passing out. After an ordeal like this, Aziraphale had no idea how long he might sleep. He thought it best to sober up and sort some things out before that happened. 

“Crowley,” He shook Crowley’s leg to rouse him.

“Wassat?” 

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Haven’t I done enough for you already, angel?” Crowley grumbled. But he did sit up.

“I…I don’t know exactly what my limits are yet, what I can and can’t do without your permission.” Aziraphale found his hand twisting in Crowley’s pant leg as he spoke. It was hard for him to find the right words, to get Crowley to listen, to truly understand. “I need you to order me to protect you. While you sleep.” If Crowley were attacked in the night, if he was unable to fight back, if he had to watch, while…while…

“Sure, fine. I order you to protect me while I sleep. There.” Crowley flopped back on the couch and flung an arm over his eyes, oblivious to the Aziraphale squeezing his ankle in thanks. The flippantly delivered command carried no less weight than the others, and Aziraphale could feel it tuning and refocusing his mind, sharpening his diffuse devotion into a single, tangible purpose.

His first step was to reinforce the magical wards Crowley had placed on his home and add a few of his own. He then miracled up comfortable pillows and a chic black and gold blanket to gently tuck Crowley in. Finally, in the corner of the room that had the best view of the windows and doors, he placed a cushy armchair and a small side table with a cup of ever-steaming tea, a book, and a large, wicked-looking sword. Aziraphale took off his jacket and settled in to read, loosening his tie and rolling up his shirt sleeves. He paused there for a moment to admire his handiwork from earlier in the evening: a square of shimmering gold on his left forearm. 

It was a detailed tattoo of an ornate bookplate, carefully inscribed with the words _From the Library of Mr. Anthony J. Crowley._

He looked over at his beloved, who had snuggled into the blanket and begun lightly snoring. It wasn’t in a demon’s nature to forgive, he knew, but he hoped that one day Crowley might at least understand _why_. Why now - enslaved, owned, Bound - he finally felt free.


End file.
